Vampiric Enigma
by Reality.Is.A.Prison
Summary: Albus Dumbledore's old friend has finally returned to Hogwarts, different than she was when she attended as a student. Follow Severus Snape and the Golden Trio as they unravel Clara Caine's blood-draining secret. Slightly AU. EDITED
1. Prologue

**A/N: I would like to convey my sincerest apologies for the…er…**_**delay**_**. I had not, in all honesty, intended for this story to take many months to be updated. I've heard of this thing called a 'plot bunny'? Yes, well, mine fell into a coma. It was very tragic and sudden, and I thought about it everyday. I wasn't going to give up on it, despite the fact that not knowing what to do was literally driving me insane—you can ask my parents. Fortunately, the plot bunny has now recovered quite well, though the doctors warn us that there could be a relapse. **

**Anyway. I have changed quite a few things, and therefore I ask that if you are one of the **_**lovely**_** people who have already perused through my brainchild (I'm very protective of this story), I ask that you start from the beginning. I wanted to give Clara a bit more substance, because, in my mind, she has become a very real and complex person. She is more human in this revision, as was my goal. I have also decided—after much deliberation—that the best person to portray Clara Caine is the lovely Kaya Scodelario. There is a link at the bottom of the author's note if you happen to not be familiar with her.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Mrs. Jo Rowling, therefore, every ****recognisable person, place, and thing does not belong to me. The only thing I own is Clara Caine and her family.**

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Prologue

_You only live once, but if you_

_do it right, once is enough._

_-Mae West_

**Death**/deTH/Noun

-The action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism

**Vam·pire**/ˈvamˌpī(ə)r/Noun

-A corpse supposed, in European folklore, to leave its grave at night to drink the blood of the living by biting their necks with long pointed canine teeth.

In the Muggle world, vampires are creatures of legend and lore, similar to dragons and unicorns. The stories of these creatures, tales of their sharp fangs and glowing eyes, are often told by parents to their children, to make them behave; 'Don't go outside after dark, dear, or the vampires with get you!'. They are told on All Hallows Eve, by friends of all ages, trying to scare one another senseless before they dare one of the less fortunate to go beyond the ring of light created by the lantern they all sit around. There are dozens of movies and books and poems composed about vampires, all of which show false images and explain false facts.

The Wizarding World isn't much different. To the magical populace, vampires are a Class Five Dangerous Magical Creature. To the Ministry, we are half-breeds, animals, as low on the societal totem pole as werewolves. I suppose the animal part is well justified; most vampires, upon transformation, loose their humanity, becoming mere shells of their former selves, merely blood-lusting beings with a pack mentality and a human façade. Some of us do manage to retain our sanity, though sometimes this is the less-preferred path to follow. The instinctual need, the _craving_ for blood cannot be overcome easily, and eventually, the act of killing becomes too much, and some just give in to the madness.

We are not all monsters. We do not deserve to be hunted. Do you think we wanted this life, if one could even call it that? We were once people. We were once one of you, once human, mortal. We had families; mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, and children. Do you think we chose to be subjected to this twisted sort of earthly purgatory? We cannot die! I would know, for I have tried countless times, as has undoubtedly the majority of us.

Garlic does not poison us, and crucifixes do not burn. Sunlight will not melt us, and wooden stakes are, in my experience, completely harmless, though they do leave a nasty scar.

Our skin is not diamond hard and impenetrable; we can be cut, and we can be hurt. Our eyes do not glow with the fire of Hell, and we have not been damned by God, or by Merlin, or by any other deity of whom has garnered your worship.

We are just like you, with the exception that we ourselves, our bodies, are frozen. Our hearts do not beat, and our blood is congealed—thick as syrup and dark as your best burgundy wine. For those of us who choose to keep our sanity, our morality, we are, on the inside, the same exact people that the world once knew.

I have survived, and I have kept my sanity. I am still the brilliant witch I once was, and my memories are still there.

And now I will spin you a tale. I will tell you how I got my life back, how I found love, and friendship, and joy, and blessed normalcy. I will tell you of the roads I had to travel, the secrets I had to reveal, the pain I had to endure, and the war I had to fight through.

My name is Clara Caine.

And this? This is my story.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

_Victory is sweetest when you've _

_tasted defeat._

_-Malcolm S. Forbes _

Albus Dumbledore looked down at the small child that he had just placed on the front steps of Number Four, Privet Drive. He pulled a parchment envelope out of the folds of his robes with a flourish, bending down and tucking it into the blankets that securely swaddled the infant.

"A letter?" the strict-looking woman beside him hissed. "You think all this can be explained in a _letter?_"

"They will understand".

"I've watched them all day, Albus! They're the worst sort of people. They won't understand him—the child will be famous, everybody in the Wizarding World will know his name. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if today was named National Harry Potter Day!"

"Which is why he should grow up here. Fame is enough to turn any boy's head. Besides, they are the only family he has left."

Minerva McGonagall sighed, but she knew she couldn't argue with Dumbledore's logic. She opened her mouth to try, of course, but was cut off by a howling resembling that of a wounded dog. She rushed over to pat the half-giant on the arm.

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, blowing his nose into a massive, canary-yellow handkerchief. "It's jus so sad! James an' Lily gone, an' little Harry off ter live with the Muggles!" he broke into a fresh wave of tears.

The professor cringed at his volume. "Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but _please_ Hagrid, quiet down before someone hears us!"

Hagrid stopped howling almost immediately, blowing his nose again. He dabbed at his beady eyes and sniffed. "I'm sorry, P'fessor", he apologised again. "I've jus' gotten so attach'd ter the little fella…"

"This isn't goodbye, Hagrid. We will see him again one day", Dumbledore stated wisely as he stepped over the low garden wall and made his way towards them.

The half-giant nodded. As if those words were a dismissal, he turned and lifted one leg over the motorbike he'd arrived on. The metal contraption groaned and creaked under his weight, but it held. "I s'pose I should return tis here bike back ter Sirius Black. Merlin knows he'll be missin' it". He nodded to the two professors again and said that he'd see them back at Hogwarts before he revved the bike up. It roared to life under his massive frame, and shot off down the drive. When the bike got to the corner, it lifted up and was suddenly airborne. The witch and wizard that remained safely on the ground watched until Hagrid and the motorbike were nothing more than a twinkle in the sky.

With a sigh, Minerva faced Albus, "I best be getting along as well". She gave him a sad little smile before she transformed into a feline and disappeared between houses Number Four and Six. Albus waited until her magical signature's presence left completely before calling out;

"You can come out now, Clara".

A moment of complete quiet proceeded a young woman stepping silently out from the darkness between houses Number Four and Two, opposite the side McGonagall had just disappeared into.

She was a beauty; pale as the concrete she glided across with hair that looked dark as the night that hid them from prying eyes. She was of medium height and curvy, but moved lithely as a jungle cat. The woman, Clara was her name, walked over to stand above the child that lay on Number Four's doorstep, resembling some sort of dark, guardian angel.

"I cannot read you", she stated plainly, pulling out her wand and crouching down beside the babe. She waved the wand up and down the small body, placing Warming and Shield Charms over the child that would wear off as soon as a blood relative touched him. "Are you happy, or are you sad?"

"I'm not sure", he answered honestly as he watched his friend tuck the blankets more tightly around young Harry to assist the charms in keeping out the autumn chill.

Clara finally looked over at him and smiled slightly. "Then you're melancholy". She looked back at the child and then at Number Four, a frown marring her lips. "Are you sure this is best? Leaving him here, I mean".

"Do you think otherwise?"

"You know how much I despise it when you answer my questions with a question. For once, Albus, just say what you mean and mean what you say. Riddles are usually reserved for lighter times."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and strode along the small concrete pathway to join Clara at the front steps. He wasn't very worried about being seen; the Deluminator took care of that. If anybody were to get up and peek outside, they wouldn't be able to see a thing, even if they pressed their faces flat against the glass of their windows.

"Is this not the lightest time we've had for several years?"

"Perhaps for some, but Albus; how many people perished in this war?" The young woman ran a thumb over baby Harry's plump little cheeks and then pressed the back of her hand to his teeny forehead, checking to make sure her charms were working as they should be.

"One-hundred and seventy-three", he answered automatically, either not catching the fact that the question was a rhetorical one, or not caring. "My conscience bears the weight of each and every one of those deaths, be they from our side or theirs".

Clara looked faintly startled. "I wasn't implying that they didn't do so, Albus, nor am I implying that you are at fault. I am merely pointing out that, while there _is_ veritable cause for a fair deal of celebration, many are mourning now for those they couldn't during the war. Tonight is a catharsis in its own right", she paused then, and sighed lightly. "If Mr. Potter is to live _here_", she sneered a little as she gestured towards the house they were standing in front of, "could we at least keep watch over him? Check up on his welfare and keep tabs?"

"You sound like Minerva", Albus said, amused.

"I can hardly disagree with her logic, now can I? She was right when she said that the Dursleys were the worst sort of people. I've watched them all day as well, and they hardly look like the type that would be able to raise a young wizard".

"You too? All day?"

"Well I hardly have anything better to do. Now that the war is over, I've discovered that I suddenly have wagonloads of spare time and nothing to fill it with. Your professor never saw me though, so you will not have any awkward explanations to dodge when you get back to the castle".

"You could come with me", Albus was staring intently at Clara now, instead of at little Harry.

"Beg pardon?"

"Don't play dumb, dear, it doesn't suit you. You could return to Hogwarts with me. I'm sure that I could find something for you to do there, perhaps as an assistant professor? Or maybe you could help Poppy in the Hospital Wing—Merlin knows she's busy enough as it is with all those children. They seem to attract injuries like magnets!"

"How many times have we discussed this, Albus?"

"If we include this one…then two-hundred and nine".

Clara threw him an exasperated look. "Yes well, one would think that two-hundred and eight refusals would be enough to drive it through that melon rind you call a skull."

"So is that a yes?"

"No." She ran a pale hand over her face, and she suddenly seemed so much older than she should've ever lived to be. "It's not that I don't want to come, Albus…"

"Then what's stopping you?"

"I—I just don't trust myself. What if I got overwhelmed or what if some student got an injury and I slipped up? What then, Albus? All that hiding I've done from the Ministry would be for nothing, and honestly, I don't think I would ever forgive myself if I hurt an innocent person".

"Your determination and morals are much more powerful than you seem to think, Clara. I believe that you wouldn't be _able_ to slip up even if the opportunity presented itself to you. You are a strong witch—a strong _woman_, Clara."

Clara only leaned forward to press a kiss on Harry's forehead—right beside the now-famous, vivid red scar—before she stood swiftly from her crouched position.

"You should probably either go celebrate with the rest of the wizarding populace or make you way back to the castle and do whatever headmaster-esque things it is you pretend to do there", she teased, silently pleading him to drop the current topic of conversation.

Dumbledore hugged the witch tightly and pressed a kiss to her own forehead. "I think I'll stop by Honeydukes. They are bound to have their lemon drops half-priced in celebration!"

Clara grinned a stepped back. "I'll be at my usual residence if you need me". She took one last look at the swaddled baby on the doorstep before turning on the spot, Disapparating with a sharp _'crack'_.

After standing there for a moment longer, the old wizard pull the Deluminator from his robes once again and restored the lights to all twelve of the streetlamps. His eyes caught the little bundle that had so occupied his friend's attention, and he let a small smile creep across his lips.

"Good luck, Harry Potter".

And he, too, disappeared from sight.

All across Europe, witches and wizards everywhere were raising their glasses in a toast;

"_To Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived!"_


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

_Things are not always what they seem;_

_the first appearance deceives many; _

_the intelligence of a few perceives what has _

_been carefully hidden. _

_-Phaedrus_

A figure stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, shrouded in the darkness of the looming timber. She did not heed the warnings and rumours that surrounded this vast opening of trees. She was not afraid. She was a hunter, a predator, and anything would be hard pressed to attack her.

The wind howled around her, only adding to the eeriness of the forest. She supposed that it was cold out here after dark. It was September first, after all, in the highlands of Scotland, though she knew for a fact that the chill here wasn't nearly as bad as it would be this time of year in France or Bulgaria. The students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would have been in for a shock had they not come here for the Triwizard Tournament. Speaking of which…

From where she was standing, huddled in her black, threadbare cloak, pretending to be cold, she could deduce that the delegations from both magical schools had already arrived. Her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. She'd always loved making dramatic entrances; Albus used to say it was her weakness.

She made her way across the sloping grounds of Hogwarts, making sure to give the Whomping Willow a wide berth. She could have run, and made it to the castle in a fraction of the time, but it was peaceful out here, with the darkness pressing in from all sides, the black heavens stretching above, mocking its viewers with twinkling stars. The castle itself was as impressive as she last remembered it; massive stone torrents stretched toward the sky, gothic-style windows alight with everlasting, non-drip candles suspended in midair. From here she could hear the gentle buzz of childish chatter, and smell the banquet being prepared in the kitchens below. It had been so _long_ since she'd last been here—the nostalgia was a little overwhelming.

The courtyard was the same, of course. The carriages had not yet been sent away, so the threstrals were all still in attendance. She stopped momentarily as one of the black, leathery creatures snorted, turning its milky-white gaze toward her. The animal smelled death.

It smelled _her_.

Its head cocked to the side, appraising the woman with innocent curiosity. She moved to pet it, her worn leather boots scuffing at the courtyard's stone as she did so. Her hand stroked the animal's cheek, and she had to grin when it leaned its massive head into her cold touch.

It was obvious this animal found delight in cavorting around with other creatures of the dark.

She shivered. Not from the cold she could not feel, but from the strange feeling of comfort she found in associating with another creature who lived only for the sake of death. Turning away from the carriages and their entourages, her long legs carried her up the steps and through the large oak doors. The blast of sounds and smells nearly knocked her off her feet. The pale witch stood there for a moment, leaning against a stone column for support as she put a hand to her head, attempting to get used to the overwhelming sensations she knew she would be enduring for some time now. The sounds of approach made her straighten.

A dirty little man with a prominent hunchback and lank, unwashed hair was shuffling towards her at a surprisingly swift pace, a mangy cat with lantern-like eyes trotting behind him on its bandy legs. The cat made her feel a little uneasy.

"And who do we have here?" The man asked greedily, his voice making her think of oily satin rubbing against itself. Not a pleasant sound, actually.

"My name is Clara Caine. Professor Dumbledore invited me as the new duelling professor", she replied coolly, her eyes flickering between the man and what was obviously his familiar.

"Yeah? I'm s'pposed to believe that? Dumbledore never mentioned a new profess-"

"I don't have time to argue over whether my story is legitimate or not", she cut in sternly. "If you're planning on standing here all night to interrogate me, then I will show myself to the Great Hall. I daresay I remember where it is".

The man gave her another skeptical once-over before huffing and turning away, walking in the direction of the intense sounds. "Follow me, then", he muttered gruffly, his cat trailing after him, shooting her covert looks every now and them.

Stopping at a pair of double oak doors, the hunched man turned to Clara. "I'm Argus Filch, by the way, miss, the school's caretaker."

She inclined her head in a small bow. "It is a pleasure, Mr. Filch".

Filch just nodded. "Look, if you happen to see a poltergeist floatin' around anywhere, let me know. Peeves has been gettin' on my last nerve for decades, and if Dumbledore catches wind of him annoying the new p'fessor, I'll finally get to send him packin'!"

Clara raised a brow. Peeves? He was still here? She had to mentally berate herself. Of course the poltergeist was still here, he haunted the castle for Merlin's sake. "I will most certainly keep my eye out for him, Mr. Filch", she said, hiding her look of utter amusement.

The caretaker stared at her skeptically for a few moment before nodding again, seemingly satisfied with her answer. He gestured towards the oak doors. "Right through there, miss", he stated, before turning away and continuing his meticulous inspection of the castle. His cat remained sitting on the floor in front of Clara, watching her intently. She glared at it. The mangy thing just sneezed and got up, trotting happily after its master.

Severus Snape was not amused. In all honesty and fairness, this man was rarely amused, unless of course he was delighting in making his students uncomfortable or causing first years burst into tears with a single glance. Tonight was different though; he _really_ wasn't amused. To think that Albus would allow Hogwarts to be the host school for such a ridiculous—_and dangerous_—event as the Triwizard Tournament boggled his mind.

His gaze wandered across the hall, taking in the sights. His Snakes were chatting excitedly with the Durmstrang students. His eyes narrowed suspiciously when he saw Draco Malfoy whispering covertly to Viktor Krum, the young Quidditch Seeker, who was nodding enthusiastically; nothing good could come from that pair. The Beauxbaton delegation sat with the Ravenclaws, daintily inspecting their food. His lip curled when he saw a young woman with silver-blonde hair crinkle her nose at her Yorkshire pudding before setting down her fork and folding her hands gently in her lap, seemingly displeased at the accommodations. Oh, how he _loathed_ the French.

Albus leaned over in front of Minerva to get the Potions Master's attention, his crystal clear blue eyes twinkling madly. "Severus, my dear boy, I highly recommend that you stop scowling so dreadfully; you're frightening the children!"

Indeed he was. A second year Hufflepuff his absent gaze had fallen upon was looking as though he was going to wet his trousers. Snape forced his expression into one of cool indifference.

"Better?" he drawled, turning to the headmaster once more.

Albus just grinned. "Much. I must confide in you though: We are expecting a new professor, an old friend of mine who graciously accepted the position of Duelling Mistress. I must ask you to reserve your usual—err…_disposition_—if you will. It would not do to anger her".

Minerva McGonagall snorted into her Shepherd's Pie. Snape glared at her, though it served to do nothing but encourage an eye roll from the incorrigible older woman. She turned to Albus.

"Now, when you say 'old friend'—" She was cut off by the Great Hall entrance doors bursting open with a _'bang!'_ Every head in the hall, foreign and not, swivelled towards the double oak doors.

A woman strode in, her black cloak billowing out behind her, clasped at the collar of her ghostly pale neck with a ruby-encrusted broach. Her long, brunette hair was plaited and swirled about her shapely waist as she walked. Her movement was smooth and hypnotic, and Snape couldn't help but admire the way she seemingly glided across the flagstone floor. Sharp brown eyes were locked on the headmasters blue ones, studiously ignoring the many looks and whispers her arrival had gained.

She stopped in front of Albus, who, at her entrance, had moved around so he was standing in the centre of the dais in front of the staff table. The mysterious woman's stoic countenance split, a closed-lipped smile creeping across her face as she lunged forward, trapping the Headmaster in a tight hug that he returned with equal enthusiasm. The Great Hall was abuzz with whispers.

Upon release, Dumbledore turned towards the student body and its guests, smiling like a school boy on Christmas Day and resting an arm on the witch's slender shoulders. "This lovely woman here", Albus began, "is Professor Clara Caine, your new Duelling Mistress!"

The excited whispers only increased in volume, and a few of the elder year males were issuing cat calls. Severus and Minerva shared a look. Albus' 'old friend' looked as though she had just graduated from school herself. No older than twenty-two at most. Clara Caine gave a bow to the students before straightening. Albus continued on.

"While she will be teaching years one through seven, our guests from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are more than welcome to take her classes. She and I will discuss it with your Highmaster and Headmistress to find an agreeable schedule that will be handed out at breakfast tomorrow!" With that, Albus guided Clara to her seat, an empty one that sat between Snape himself and Igor Karkaroff.

Dinner proceeded as normal, though Snape couldn't help his frequent glances at Caine out of the corners of his eyes. She was quite a beautiful young woman, he could admit that much to himself. He watched as she attempted to deflect Igor's questions about herself in a soft but firm voice, her thin lips twitching (in amusement or irritation—he could not tell).

As per usual, when the feast concluded, Albus rose to his feet once again, effectively silencing the chatter of over two-hundred students almost immediately. The newly-Sorted students of each House looked around the Hall in confusion at the sudden attentiveness before realising what was going on, and then they too fell quiet.

Albus cleared his throat, a beaming smile upon his lips. "I am sure now that you are all fed and watered, you want nothing more than to wander on to your dormitories; but before you all skip off to dance with sugar plums in your heads, I have a few announcements:

"The Forbidden Forest is, in fact, exactly that; forbidden. Our older students would do well to keep that in mind as well." His twinkling eyes found those of two identical, redheaded boys. "Also, Mr. Filch has asked me to kindly remind you for what he has told me is the four hundredth and seventy-second time that magic is _not_ permitted in the corridors between classes. The list of magical items also forbidden in the castle has grown to include Fizzing Whizbeez, Fanged Frisbees, and Hiccup Sweets. If you wish to view the entire list, which I believe is comprised of eight hundred and sixty-six items, you may find it posted in Mr. Filch's office". The edges of Dumbledore's mouth twitched.

"Now, I believe it is time for bed. I wish to see you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. Off you trot!"

The students in the Hall rose collectively, first years flocking around their assigned Prefects. The foreign delegation sidled out the great oak doors, no doubt the Bulgarians heading to their ship and the French queuing up to return to their glorified horse-drawn cart.

Snape rose to feet in one fluid movement, and as he swept from the chamber to usher his Slytherins down to the dungeons, he couldn't help but notice Albus and Hogwarts' newest professor leaving through the side door, arm in arm.

"I am glad you decided to take me up on my offer", Albus said.

The two were seated in his office, Clara lounging casually on his settee while he sat behind his desk, observing her over the rim of his teacup.

The brunette smirked softly. "You didn't leave me much a of choice, now did you?"

"I always give you a choice. I would never back you into a corner".

"Not knowingly", Clara said, stretching her legs out on the silver-tasseled footstool in front of her. "But you know I could never refuse you, so when you asked if I would come and take a position as a professor, I had to say yes. Normally you just offer every year, prod me, give me an alternative to holing up in some secluded forest; this time you asked me directly."

"You didn't even know my reasons", the wizard remarked.

"I don't feel that I have to. I trust you inexplicably, and I know that you will tell me your reasons when you're ready".

Albus smiled at her. "That's a remarkably Gryffindor quality to possess, my dear. Act first and ask questions later".

Clara's face twisted in a grimace. "Don't compare me to your bloody _Gryffindors_, Albus. A lion's den is hardly any place for a serpent". Somewhere, hidden among the multitude of portraits of past headmasters and mistresses that decorated the wall, the two could hear Phineas Nigellus snort.

They sat in companionable silence for a long while. They both enjoyed these moments, moments in which they didn't have to speak to acknowledge one another. The circular office was dark, lit only by a crackling fire burning in the fireplace, making the capacious room seem smaller and cozier. Clara's dark eyes watched Albus closely for a moment before she spoke.

"Who was that man?" she asked suddenly.

Albus grinned. "There are several men to whom you could be referring, Clara. I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific."

She shot him a withering look. "The one I sat next to at dinner, you old fool".

"Highmaster Igor Karkaroff? You already know him, dear". The headmaster's eyes were twinkling madly at her from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"The other one. The dark one." He truly got on her nerves sometimes. He was just lucky she had the patience of a saint…

"That is my resident Potions Master, Severus Snape."

Clara nodded slowly. "What's wrong with him?" Albus gave her a strange look.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"It's just…his eyes—" Clara gestured wildly with her hands for a moment before she sighed in frustration, irritated with herself for not being able to clearly articulate her observation. After a moment of struggling with her tongue, she gave up. "Never mind. Really, Albus", she said when the man in question raised a silver eyebrow sceptically. "It's none of my business. Besides, I should be getting to bed anyway; where are my quarters?"


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

_The walls of my castle are cracked, the shadows are many._

_But come in. Feel yourself at home._

_-Carlos Villarias_

Breakfast the next morning was a lively affair.

Or maybe not. Clara wasn't sure. She didn't attend.

One dinner had been enough. Although she felt no need to eat solid food, it was torture to watch others savour the elegant flavours of grilled meats and spiced vegetables. Jealousy seemed to rear its ivy green head every time she caught a glimpse of someone taking a bite of the various meals on display. Her nose had prickled painfully at the smell of the blood that had dribbled out of Igor Karkaroff's medium rare steak, but she could easily ignore the temptation that had gnawed at her psyche.

Her luggage had been—as Albus had assured before he left her alone with her Guardian Portrait—placed neatly by the fireplace which illuminated the expansive parlour with a warm glow. Sitting upon her ancient, old-fashioned school trunk had been a thick parchment envelope addressed to one _Clara Caine_ in a loopy script. She'd recognized the handwriting immediately and opened the envelope to discover her class schedule. Albus had taken the liberty of outlining every class she had, every day, every week. She would start with the fourth years on Monday, working her way down through the younger years in the same day, and then on Tuesday she would handle the upper years, as well as the foreign delegations whom had been signed up for her class by their Headmistress and Highmaster. The Monday group would attend her class again on Wednesday and Friday, and then would occupy the next week's Tuesday and Thursday. The two groups would rotate their every-other-day positions each week. After seeing it on paper and mapping it all out in her head, Clara had to concede that it was a very clean-cut system.

It was now an hour before classes began, and if one searched hard, they would find the newly instated Duelling Mistress seated upon her lush sofa in her parlour. Her elbows were rested on her knees, her hands supporting her head as she gazed absently into the fire. The flames were reflected in her glazed eyes, and it seemed as though she were a thousand miles away.

She sat stock still, her likeness to the marble statue of Cleopatra that stood by her bookshelves uncanny. She was relishing the oppressive silence of the dungeons for a few minutes more before she was forced to surface back to the cacophony that was civilization. Clara knew she had much to do today, such as instruct four different classes with no planning periods, in which she would teach her students the history of her subject and what it meant to be a dueller . She also had several modified Blood Replenishing potions to brew; for her own use, of course. She couldn't very well live off the dinner wines served at supper. Blood wasn't an option, absolutely not. Clara knew she might be the only person infected with vampirism that did not live on the vital liquid, and it served to help keep her control. Only once had she actually tasted blood, it had only been the blood of an animal, but it had taken her days to force her inner beast back into submission and regain her full sanity again. It had been tedious work. She had run around the countryside of West Berkshire for hours, her emotions torn between disgust at what she had degraded herself to, and complete exhilaration at the memory of the hunt; the newly ingested blood coursing through every artery, every vein, so unlike her own blood: thick, syrupy, and congealed to the point that it hardly flowed if she sliced her palm open. Her primal elation had been like a high, like how those Muggles felt when they shot themselves full of heroin.

Three days after her first taste of blood, Clara's sanity came back. She was shaky, weak—almost as if she were dehydrated. Knowing that she would no doubt lose what little rationality she had been able to regain if she holed herself up, Clara Apparated to Hogwarts, directly into the Headmaster's office.

_**Flashback**_

_(Headmaster's office, Hogwarts. November of 1956)_

_A resounding '__**pop**__' rang through the capacious, circular office; Clara Caine's thin form landing haphazardly on the plush, cerulean carpet. Slightly startled, Albus Dumbledore looked up from his paperwork, his wizened, seventy-five-year-old face breaking into a smile at the sight of his ex-student and old friend._

"_Clara! My dear! How have you be-?" He broke off, staring at the trembling woman in concern. She had not risen from the position she first arrived in, only curled in on herself slightly._

"_Clara?" Dumbledore ventured softly. The newly instated headmaster rose from his desk, slowly rounding the massive piece of furniture. The quiet rustling of his magenta robes over carpet made Clara aware of his approach. As he started to kneel, hand outstretched to touch her shoulder, she flinched violently, uncoiling herself, standing, and stepping away within a millisecond. Of course, Dumbledore was quite used to her speedy movements by now, having known her long before she contracted her vampirism, but he was still slightly caught off guard. She had never moved away from his touches before, always embracing him warmly, kissing him on the cheek in greetings and farewells, patting his arms or shoulders in gestures of comfort and support, or smacking his hand away from the multiple jars of sweets upon his desk, laughingly warning him about a curious new disease that Muggles called 'diabetes'. _

_Something was terribly wrong._

"_Don't! No…t-touch…please. Dangerous…k-killed…blood __**everywhere**__!" Her words were punctured with habitual breaths, her violent trembling making her stutter—another way Dumbledore knew she was not herself. Clara was always confident, whether it be in movement, thought, or voice. She never stuttered._

_The graying man stepped forward slowly, only to pause when she took a quick step back._

"_Dear girl, it is only Albus. I shan't harm you, child", Dumbledore cooed soothingly, speaking to the erratic woman in front of him as if she was his eleven-year-old Transfiguration student again. _

_It seemed to work. Her breathing gradually became more controlled, though still broken up by restrained sobs, as if she was beating back her emotions, struggling to regain control. After a minute or two, Clara blinked, her vandyke-brown eyes focusing on the office in front of her—taking in the pale silver paisley wallpaper, the cracked bay window, the rising sun, and the spindle-legged tables adorned with aberrant objects, all whirring and emitting teeny puffs of white smoke._

_Still speaking calmly, as if addressing a frightened cat, Dumbledore continued. "Clara…? What happened, child? What has made you so upset?"_

_Seeming to have gotten a bit of a hold on herself, the witch twitched slightly and then moved to sit on the chintz armchair situated in front of the hearth. Her movements were jerky and spasmodic, not containing her usual fluidity and gracefulness. She sat heavily and threaded her long fingers through her hair. It was lank and terribly greasy, as if she hadn't showered in days. This was further proved when the older man sat beside her—keeping space between them, for her comfort—and caught her scent. It smelled animalistic and unclean._

_Taking deep breaths, Clara began to speak in a hoarse, halting voice. "Three—three days ago…I had…I had an accident. It was grey out…morning…I remember walking through the woods…ingredients for a potion. Looking for boomslang skin. I…I found a deer…just a small ways off the path. It was hu-hurt. B-bleeding. Bad. So—so much…so much __**blood**__!"_

_She paused then, her petite body racked with dry sobs. She was holding her head tightly, and Albus was quite afraid that her untrimmed nails might pierce her scalp. Slowly, he pulled her into his arms, ignoring the small flinch she gave, and hugged her tightly. Speaking slow, soothing, nonsensical words in the murmuring tone she had once told him her mother used, the old headmaster rocked one of his oldest friends._

_After a few minutes, Dumbledore released her and forced her to look at him. The look in her eyes made his aging heart lurch. They were so pained, so full of both self-loathing, and the desperation of wanting him to just __**understand**__. She looked so lost, so much like she did on the night she came to him all those years ago, having realized what she had become. Clara had begged him to come back with her, she couldn't face the bodies of her family alone, she said. The way they had been murdered—she had felt then as if __**she**__ was the one to have taken their lives._

"_Tell me, Clara. You will feel better in the end. Get this out, free your conscious of the guilt". _

_Forcing back her own hysteria, Clara bowed her head. As she began to speak for a second time, Dumbledore found himself gently carding his friend's hair, twining his usually steepled fingers through the lifeless strands._

"_I tried so hard Albus! I tried to fight it. The blood…so red…it smelled s-so good! I-I couldn't fight it", she stopped momentarily, the thought of her drinking the blood making her gag forcefully, so differently from the desperate way she had consumed it. "I drank it, a-all of it", she whispered. "The animal was dead within seconds. It would have died regardless…too much…blood. _

"_I-I felt…so…so __**wonderful**__! My mind was wiped completely blank. I was utterly gone. I couldn't think, couldn't reason. A small part of myself, the part that was so buried beneath that ecstasy, felt disgusted, horrified at myself for what I'd done…for becoming the very thing I swore I would never become. _

"_Three days. I was gone for three days. Empty…a thoughtless predator. I remember…running. I just wanted to get away". Clara looked up at him sadly, her almond eyes rimmed with red, but containing no tears._

"_When I could finally think again…I was so appalled at what I'd let myself do-"_

"_No."_

_Dumbledore's eyes were no longer twinkling merrily. They stared at her, practically through her, over the tops of half-moon spectacles. His voice was stern as he spoke:_

"_You did not __**let**__ yourself lose control, Clara. It was instinct. You fought so hard…forgive yourself, child."_

"_But-"_

"_**You are not at fault!**__"_

_A ringing silence followed his words. The past headmasters and headmistresses were all awake, nodding violently within their various frames. Vehement 'Not your fault's, and calls of 'Poor dear', were heard in murmuring tones throughout the room. After a long moment of just staring, Clara finally nodded, albeit a bit hesitantly, but she did so nonetheless._

_Dumbledore smiled kindly, his crystal blue eyes regaining the playful 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' spark as he helped her up and led her over to a wooden door that sat behind an old, fourteenth century, woven tapestry of __Angers Apocalypse__. Ignoring the occupants' grumpy protests, the wizard pushed it aside and opened the door and gave Clara a small shove into his private living quarters._

"_Second door on the right, dear. Towels are under the washing basin."_

_When Clara reentered the office, she no longer smelled of forests, but of peaches. When she'd found a corked decanter of peach scented soap in the washroom of the great Albus Dumbledore, she couldn't help the small fit of shaky, hysterical laughter that bubbled up and had her doubled over by the sink. _

_She'd changed into one of her old friend's dark linen robes, seeing as he tended to favour bright and lively colours over dark ones. They were quite large on her. Though Albus was a slim man, he was frighteningly tall, where as she was thin and a good head shorter than him._

_Dumbledore smiled from behind his desk as Clara reappeared in the room. Her previously dirt-smudged face was scrubbed clean, making her thin porcelain face shine in the afternoon light that streamed through the curtains of the bay window. He noted that she looked marginally calmer and much more composed. Her movement still wasn't as fluid as it could have been, but it was graceful, albeit acute. She sat gently in one of the two cushioned leather chairs that sat in front of Dumbledore's desk, usually reserved for misbehaved students._

"_I've been in this chair before", Clara observed, obviously thinking along the same line as him._

_The headmaster chuckled good-naturedly, fishing in the pockets of his robes, searching for a new candy he had recently discovered—lemon drops, they were called. He succeeded, popping one into his mouth before offering Clara one. "They are delightfully tart!"_

_She took it and sat the round, canary yellow sweet on her tongue, sucking thoughtfully and waiting for the glazed coating to melt. Soon, her enhanced taste buds were twanging painfully, the sour candy jolting every bud, making the poor things raw. Dumbledore began to laugh heartily at the faces she pulled and the way her left eye twitched._

_As they experimented with several more sweets—Clara only ate the ones that could be sucked on—they talked, catching up on the goings-on and missed events._

"_So I hear you're on Chocolate Frog cards now, yes, or was that just a rumor?"_

"_Ah", the wizard smiled. "My greatest achievement! I find that it has far __more__ worth than inventing uses for the blood of an overgrown lizard."_

_Clara grinned. "And your newest professor?" she inquired, taking the proffered acid pop as she recalled _The Daily Prophet_ headline. Now that Albus had become Hogwarts' current headmaster, both the increased workload and staggering responsibility of his position would not allow him to continue teaching Transfiguration, forcing him to find a new teacher to fill the empty post. _

_Dumbledore spat out a Bertie Bott bean with a muttered oath of 'Earwax!'. "Ah, yes. Professor Minerva McGonagall is quite the prodigy. From what I've learned, she is fair, patient, and stern—good qualities for a professor of that subject. She also seems to take pleasure in scaring her first years. Sits on her desk as a cat and catches the late-comers red-handed!"_

"_McGonagall? She wouldn't happen to be related to Ignatius McGonagall, would she?" Ignatius McGonagall was a famous wizard who excelled in the subject of Transfiguration. He was the first dragon Animagus and discovered the few exceptions to Gamp's Law. He was a man that Clara respected greatly, her apprenticeship years earlier having forced her to research his achievements in-depth._

_Albus stroked his grey, auburn-freckled beard thoughtfully. "If I am not mistaken, I believe that Minerva is Ignatius' daughter", he answered._

_Clara raised a brow. "That certainly seems to be the cause of her exceptional ability of teaching that particular subject. She was practically raised to do it. She breathes it."_

_The sky was beginning to darken by the time the two friends had run out of things to talk about. Clara stood to take her leave, Dumbledore following her lead. She felt much better than she had when she arrived, one of the reasons she always chose to go to Albus when something was wrong. He knew her so well he often finished her sentences, and he would never express pity towards her, as he well knew how she abhorred that sentiment._

"_I fear I've kept you from your duties long enough, I should be taking my leave", Clara told him. " Besides, I hear someone approaching that gaudy staircase of yours"._

_The headmaster smiled at her. She was truly a remarkable person, despite all the awful things that had happened to her._

"_One more thing, Clara, love", he said. "I want to tell you how very proud I am of you. You are the only person I know who constantly chooses to do what is right, over doing what is easy. Be proud of that fact, and be proud of yourself as well"._

_The slight vampire stared at him impassively for a moment before smiling benignly and nodding. Whether she really believed him and took his words to heart or not, at least she now knew what he thought of her._

_Clara took a small step forward and turned on the spot, disappearing with a sharp '__**crack**__'. As Dumbledore sat back down at his desk, the cool autumn air swirled in through the window and twisted around his body. A small smile thinned his lips as he heard the soft, barely-there "Thank you, Albus", that traveled with the wind._

_A loud knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter"._

_His office door opened, emitting Minerva McGonagall. The stern yet vivacious thirty-one-year-old looked at him oddly, head cocked to the side._

"_Who were you talking to, Headmaster?"_

_Dumbledore chuckled, grinning mischievously. "Just Armando, my dear. He thinks it is quite improper for the head of a school as prestigious as ours to spend his time sampling sweets". He gestured the multitude of candy wrappers upon his desk._

_The portrait of said ex-headmaster Armando Dippet snorted, struggling to smother his painted smirk. Minerva seemed to accept this explanation without further question, and as she informed him of a Transfiguration mishap, he almost swore that he could hear faint, ghostly laughter._


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

_The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. _

_The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires. _

—_William Arthur Ward_

* * *

><p>The Duelling classroom was full of fidgety students that morning. Their professor appeared to be running late, and the fourth year Slytherin and Gryffindors were quite anxious. When Dumbledore had introduced Professor Caine to the Great Hall last night, they, like their other yearmates and the rest of the school, couldn't help but feel excited. A <em>Duelling<em> class. After four years of being told that it was forbidden to duel unless they _enjoyed_ detentions, they were now about to be taught _how_.

Most had taken notice of the other professors' faces, and it appeared to them that the Headmaster's news was just as surprising to the adults as it was to the students. Professors Sprout and Flitwick had seemed open to the idea, if not a bit wary initially. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Heads of House were the most easy-going of the four, so their acceptance was not surprising. McGonagall had appeared to be thoroughly startled, and several had observed her spending the remainder of the feast attempting—and failing—to discretely catch Dumbledore's attention. Snape had looked completely uninterested at the announcement, but his Snakes, the ones within the student body who knew him best, had seen one of his dark, tapered eyebrows rise upward.

While there was absolutely no doubt about the fact that the students were interested in what this class had to offer, they were even more curious about their teacher.

Professor Clara Caine had, in the brief time period that she was present during the Welcoming Feast, appeared to be a normal woman, a very _pretty_ woman. She looked terribly young to be a professor, though, but that might have been because most everyone was used to their teachers all being well over the age of at least sixty, with the exception of Snape. Many _expected_ her to go easy on her students, as she was near in age to them. They undoubtedly _expected_ this class to be a tool in which they could come in and skive off and blow off steam by hexing their classmates.

Their _expectations_ were shot to hell the moment the door opened.

Snakes and Lions alike held their breath in anticipation as their professor strode to the front of the classroom. They noticed almost immediately that she wore no robes, only black tights tucked into the same boots she wore the night before and a black collared shirt that had every button fastened tight, even the ones on her cuffs. A crème-coloured cravat was tightly secured around her neck and her hair pulled back into a loose French Twist. All in all, she showed as much skin as their Potions Professor did, which is to say, none at all.

Professor Caine stood in front of her desk, facing the room as she looked over her students. She did not lean against the edge of the massive piece of oak furniture, but stood ramrod straight with her shoulders back and her chin up. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but it was clear and cultured and could be easily heard from the back of the classroom.

"Good morning. As you no doubt heard the evening prior, my name is Clara Caine. You will address me properly as either Professor, or Ma'am", she paused then. "Headmaster Dumbledore invited me to Hogwarts to teach you all how to duel like proper witches and wizards, and that is exactly what I intend to do. Today is purely an introduction day, and after I take attendance, we shall begin."

The professor rounded her desk lithely and plucked a raven feather quill from the inkpot. "When I call your name, I want an indication that you are indeed present.

"Lavender Brown".

"Here, Professor", said Lavender, a Gryffindor with curly brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Clara nodded in her direction.

"Millicent Bulstrode".

"Present, Professor", answered a large-boned Slytherin girl with a square jaw. The cycle continued with each student answering the professor in at least a mildly respectful way. A small boy with green eyes and shaggy black hair seated in the back of the classroom waited nervously with his two friends for Caine to reach his name. The other professors had all gotten over the fact that they had _the_ famous Harry Potter in their classroom within his first year, but not without the initial excitement. During the first day of classes those three years ago, Sprout had beamed at him brightly, Flitwick had squealed out something unintelligible and promptly toppled off his stack of books and out of sight, and Snape had made a huge spectacle by mocking and sneering at him. Even his stern-faced, no-nonsense Head of House had spoken his name with a soft, barely-there inflection.

"Harry Potter".

Harry gulped. "Er…here, Professor", he said meekly.

It seemed that he had worried for naught, for Professor Caine barely glanced up, her eyes flicking to him only long enough to ascertain where he was before moving onto Adrian Pucey.

After the register was completed, the parchment disappeared in a puff of smoke and Caine returned her complete attention to her class.

"This is a dangerous class," she said, "just like Potions and Care of Magical Creatures. While we won't be working with chemicals, nor will we be introducing ourselves to temperamental beasts, we'll be turning our wands, our _power_, on one another. I would like to disabuse you now of your silly notions that this is a free period to relieve yourselves of any grudge you might hold towards each other, for I can promise you that it is _not_. If I catch sight or sound of _any_ attempt to harm one another in a way I have not ordered, I promise you, I will make you regret it.

"I wish for all of you to come to my class prepared. This means that your school robes will remain off in this room. You can keep them in your bags if you wish, but in duelling, robes and other free-moving garments are a hindrance. Ladies, this means that your hair must be tied back and out of your faces; it won't do if you lose a duel just because you can't see properly, now will it?

"In this class, I will not only teach you how to throw hexes and curses at your opponents, I will teach you how to stand and move. I will hone your bodies until you can move with the grace of Veela and strike with the speed and accuracy of a snake. I will teach you the history of dueling and provide you with new spells for your arsenal. By the time you graduate from this school as seventeen-year-olds, ready to join the Wizarding world as the newest and youngest generation of your society, you all will be ready to take on anything and everything with the professionalism of an expert.

"There will, of course, be days in which we shall spend our time simply copying notes. I _implore_ you treat those days with the importance of our practical days. I cannot show you everything physically, and detailed notes might just save your life and the lives of others in the future.

"Today and the rest of this week will be spent familiarising you with the history and origins of Duelling, for if you're to master an art, you must know it inside and out.

"What will no doubt come as a surprise to most of you is the fact that Duelling isn't just a contest to see who can cast the most spells the fastest with the greatest effect. Duelling is an art form that's been honed for centuries—millennia, even. Its movements and stances are derived from mobile meditations. It's known as 'yoga' in the non-magical world, for those of you who are muggle-born.

"To duel, you must display complete control over _every_ part of your body. Every limb, every appendage, from your legs to your fingers—you must be able to picture the way it moves, when it should move, and how much it should move. There are many different styles of movement, as there are forms that originate from several different countries, such as China, Japan, France, Bulgaria, Romania, Germany, and the Americas".

Clara continued to lecture, giving an abbreviated version of the history of duelling, the dangers of it, and several notable people who were masters of the art. She touched upon the different styles, demonstrating a few stances (she would go into greater detail later in the week), most of which depended on the dueler's physical stature. They would study each style of movement separately over the next few weeks, practicing them and finding one that suited them best.

She had them copy down a few notes, most of which were very general. Surprisingly, this was done with absolutely none of the groaning she'd expected, and by the time the period had ended, the students left her classroom with grins on their faces, seeming extremely enthusiastic at the prospect of learning more about the subject. A good few of the children even waved at her and called out goodbyes as they exited, making a warm feeling settle into the very depths of Clara's stomach, something she hadn't felt in a very long time.


End file.
